


The Art of Snowball Warfare

by doctorzoidberg (bonmoustache)



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Christmas, Destiel Advent Calendar, Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Romance, Snow, Snow Angels, Winter, snowball fights, snowballs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-20
Updated: 2013-12-20
Packaged: 2018-01-05 06:28:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1090706
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonmoustache/pseuds/doctorzoidberg
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One week before Christmas, a blizzard blows through Lebanon. Dean decides to teach Cas about snowball fights.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Art of Snowball Warfare

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this for the 2013 Destiel Advent Calendar. Unfortunately, I somehow managed to mess up submitting and I feel it compromised the quality of the fic by removing an entire paragraph or two? I have no idea how I managed to do it, but there you go. So, I thought I'd feel better if I posted it here. It is unbeta'd, so please be understanding of any mistakes. This was a really fun project to be a part of, and I hope after the (thus far disastrous) events of season 9 - particularly that midseason finale - you find a little holiday cheer and smile a wee bit. :) Thanks to everyone for your support!

One week before Christmas, a blizzard blows through Lebanon. A burst of warm wind met a rush of cold wind like the Greasers and the Socs gearing up for a rumble, and the resulting low pressure zone dumped just over a foot of snow on the ground outside the bunker. Dean is awoken that morning by jubilant cheering from the front door as Kevin Tran, prophet of the Lord and legal adult, goes somersaulting into the powder. At first, he's startled, maybe even a little scared, the shouts automatically making him alert and ringing the alarm bells in his head: DANGER DANGER DANGER. However, it's only when he makes it to the bunker door to see the kid galloping through the snow like an overjoyed puppy that his heart finally stops racing in his chest and the adrenaline stops flowing.

After a few moments of watching Kevin celebrate the freak snowfall, Dean turns to go to the kitchen and make breakfast. The bunker is quiet and warm, the stone floor under his feet cool as he pads down the hallways. Watching Kevin frolic in the snow has made him cheerful, thinking that the snow is a nice reprieve from the stress of the past few weeks. It hasn't been an easy December, by any means, and the idea that outside, the world is muted and bright with the fresh snowfall makes him feel weirdly safe. Snow has always made him feel good, made him happy. When he was a kid, babysitting Sammy while his father hunted wendigos and shapeshifters in the frozen northern tundras of Minnesota and Wisconsin, he'd light a fire in the bum motel room's sooty fireplace and wrap Sam up in a spare blanket. They'd drink some illicitly obtained hot chocolate mix from the hotel lobby or the nearby convenience store. They'd pop popcorn and Dean would tell Sam stories, maybe read him a book. These were some of Dean's fondest memories: the glow of the fire heating every bone in his body, the close proximity of his baby brother, the ringing sound of their laughter, the sweetness of the hot chocolate, the beautiful silence of the world outside – snow reminded him of better times, of being happy and warm and safe, luxuries that, until recently, had always been far out of his reach.

He reaches the kitchen and is welcomed by the sight of Castiel, bedheaded and rumpled, sitting at the metal table, staring half-asleep into a mug of black coffee. He doesn't look up when Dean comes in, and for a moment Dean wonders if Cas is actually sleep-walking. When he clears his throat, though, Cas looks up and blinks sleepily a few times before a slow, easy smile spreads across his face.

“Good morning, sunshine,” Dean says, beelining for the coffee pot on the stove.

“Good morning, Dean,” Cas replies, his voice still sandpapery with sleep. “What was all that yelling about?”

Dean chuckles. He pulls his favorite coffee mug from the shelf, a solid white mug with thousands of little bunnies, all of them wrapped up in one another, wantonly fornicating. It makes him smile. He'd picked it up at a yard sale in town when they first encountered the bunker and when he first saw it, he laughed so hard he couldn't speak. Sam had rolled his eyes, but Dean could see the upward quirk of his mouth as he'd paid for it. Now it holds a place of honor between Sam's own oversized faded mug with an old map of the world on it, and Kevin's mug which features a giant cutesy bear face on a brown background. As he pours his coffee, he thinks, _We need to get Cas a mug too._

“It snowed,” Dean answers simply. He sits down at the table across from Cas. Cas is drinking from a dented blue steel camping mug with a plastic handle. It's enameled and speckled with little white dots and it completely lacks personality, which makes Dean a bit sad. Maybe that's what he'll get Cas for Christmas, a new mug. “Kevin got a bit excited,” he continues, drawing the coffee to his lips and taking a sip. It's still very hot, and it burns his tongue a little, but it's strong and kicks him right in the face, bringing him up and awake in no time.

“Snow,” Cas repeats, contemplating his own coffee. “Why is he so excited about snow?”

Dean raises an eyebrow. “Because it's snow,” he says. Cas just looks at him, perplexed. “I assume he wants to play in it.”

“Why?” Cas asks, his brow drawing together. “Is snow really that much fun?”

“Yeah, dude,” Dean replies, grinning. “Snowball fights, snowmen, snow forts... There's so much to do in the snow. Everyone kind of turns into a little kid out there.”

“I wouldn't know,” Cas says simply. He shrugs to punctuate the statement and the simple gesture sends a spike of melancholy through Dean. It saddens him that Cas has never experienced some of the most simple pleasures, like playing in the snow. This fugue lasts only a breath before Dean gets an idea.

“Finish your coffee and get dressed,” he says, once again standing up and going towards the fridge to begin breakfast. “School's out, and today's a snow day.”

**

Sam takes a little convincing. Dean finds him in the library – of course, always in the library – with a huge old tome of some age-old lore that Dean doesn't even glance at as he flops into the chair next to his brother, handing him his own mug of coffee. Sam doesn't look up from the page but reaches a hand out to receive his mug, which Dean duly deposits into the cup of his palm.

“Thanks,” Sam grunts. He turns the page. Dean winces. The paper is so old and brittle, it looks like it might flake away in Sam's gigantic paws.

“How old is that book, anyway?” Dean asks. He reaches over to lift the front pages to peer at the front of the book, like they taught him to do in school when they taught him how to write bibliographies. Sam bats his hand away.

“Hundreds of years old,” he says, “so don't touch it right now.”

Dean frowns. “Is this really how you're planning to spend your day off?” he asks. “Sitting in this dark library doing... research?”

“Recreational reading,” Sam corrects. “And yes.”

“First of all, _really?_ 'Recreational reading?' And second of all, _really?_ ”

“Yes, Dean,” Sam says, finally looking up at his brother. “Some of us enjoy reading.”

“I enjoy reading!” Dean answers, indignant. “Just not when there's a foot of snow on the ground outside. Come outside for a while, you could do with a tan.”

“You sound like a concerned mother.” Still, Sam closes the book. “Why are you so excited to go outside anyway?”

Conspiratorially, Dean leans forward. “Can you believe Cas has never played in the snow?”

Sam cocks his head. “Really? Never?”

“Yeah, I know, right? How sad is that? So I wanna take him out, show him a good time in the snow.” He can feel the excited smile spilling over his face. “You, me, Cas, Kevin; a little 'Team Free Will' bonding. It'll be fun, come on.” Dean does his best impersonation of Sam's puppy-eyes, but he's pretty sure if the look on Sam's face is anything to go by, he's only succeeded in looking like a demented goldfish.

“Alright, _fine._ ” Sam closes the book (gently, Dean notes with amusement) and gingerly places it on the table next to the arm chair. 

“Awesome.” Dean stands once again. “Breakfast in ten minutes. Get dressed.” He may not have the gift of big dewey dog eyes like Sam, but if the demented goldfish face is what it takes to get his brainiac brother out of the library for a few hours, he'll take it.

**

Breakfast is pancakes, sausages, eggs (fried in the sausage grease for Dean, Cas, and Kevin; egg-whites scrambled in a clean fry pan for Sam). Dean eats faster than he intends to, excited to get out into the snow. Kevin matches his speed with the same intensity of a kid eager to open presents on Christmas. Sam and Cas have barely set their forks down before Dean is standing.

“Right, time's a'wastin', guys. Let's get out there.”

They stand at the front door and bundle up. Dean fishes out extra parkas and gloves for Cas, and the guy takes a weirdly long amount of time deciding which one to wear. After two minutes of holding up a gray jacket and a blue down coat, Dean has had enough.

“Come on Cas, this isn't supposed to be a hard decision, just pick one,” he says. Cas looks up at him, then wordlessly takes the blue one. Dean quirks a smile. “There we go. Put your gloves on.”

Outside, the air is crisp and dry. The four of them trudge out into the road, the snow crunching under their feet. They walk for a few minutes in silence, and Dean admires the way the snow sticks to the tree branches and makes them white as porcelain. The overcast sky does not hide the brightness of the sun under its cover of clouds and the snow is blinding, and the entire world glitters around them. Dean glances around at his friends: Sam, who, despite his earlier grumpiness, is smiling wide as they walk, and Kevin looks like he's never been happier, barely resisting the urge to rush forward and Dean wonders when the last time he got to be young and carefree was – certainly before they came crashing into his life. 

And then there's Cas. Dean has trouble not staring. His blue eyes are taking everything in, and though the expression is tiny on his enigmatic face, Dean can tell he's thrilled to be outside. Maybe it's not that he's thrilled to be in the snow, so much as he's thrilled to be in the snow with people he cares about, thrilled to finally be experiencing a simple joy. Dean smiles too. Thoughts of fallen angels and rogue demons and Heaven and Hell and ancient tablets slip from his mind easily in the cold weather, and the lack of worry makes him feel light and free.

They arrive at a field in fifteen minutes. The field is ringed by a line of trees and scrubs, perfect places to build snowball base camps. There is plenty of snow here, and ample room to build snow forts and barracks. He turns around to speak to the small group.

“Okay,” he says. “First round, we do teams. Dibs on Cas. After all, he's gotta learn from the best.”

Kevin moves to stand closer to Sam. “Prepare to get your asses kicked,” he says, his tone menacingly cheerful. Dean is almost a little scared at the determination in the kid's eyes as he turns to Sam, grabs his elbow, and pushes him in the opposite direction.

“Half an hour grace period to build walls and barracks!” Dean calls after them. Kevin waves in acknowledgment and Sam and him dive into the snow.

“Come on,” Dean says to Cas, reaching down to grab the other's wrist. “We have to build our defenses.”

**

They spend the entire half an hour building a two-foot high, three-foot-wide wall of packed snow. Across the field, Dean spies that Sam and Kevin have made a series of small walls that dot their side of the arena. Clever, but distracting for them. Too many walls, too short, too flimsy.

Next to him, Cas is putting the finishing touches on the wall. His gloves are off to get better precision in the polishing of the wall and his fingers are red and wet.

“Doing okay, Cas?” Dean asks, shuffling closer to him. “Hands alright?”

“Yeah,” Cas says, holding his hands up. “A little cold.”

Dean removes his own gloves and, without really thinking, grabs Cas's hands in his own. He holds the chilled fingers in his hands. Ten seconds later, he realizes what he's done and almost pulls away, but Cas is looking at him gratefully and Dean won't admit it but maybe his heart does a little flip at those blue eyes staring at him in that weird, observant, borderline-creepy way that is wholly Cas. He gives Cas's hands a little rub to help the blood flow and create some warm friction.

“Gotta keep these hands nimble,” he says, his voice gruffer than he'd expected. He clears his throat. “Numb fingers make terrible snowballs. Speaking from experience,” he adds with a small smile. He holds Cas's hands a little longer than is necessary, and if he lets his touch linger just a fraction too long, no one says anything. “How're they feeling now?”

“Better,” Cas murmurs. He looks up at Dean. “Thank you, Dean.”

“Yeah,” Dean replies, scooting forward toward the wall. “Anytime.”

**

As it turns out, Cas is the best at snowball fights. Dean tries not to think about it, but can't help remembering that Cas used to be a soldier of God, an army tactician, and his battle strategist nature comes through as they lean against the wall and make snowball after snowball, stockpiling ammunition while Kevin and Sam rain their own bullets over their heads. Cas is methodical in his preparation, his snowballs smooth and firm, and he uses his weird freaky ninja-angel body to move smoothly across the line of fire and surprise Kevin and Sam multiple times with a barrage of snowballs that he carries in his arms. Dean has always been more of a hack-and-slash kind of guy, so having someone thoughtful and organized on his team is the best kind of advantage. It's like a game of football, and Cas manages every single play with analytic precision. 

That's not to say that Kevin and Sam can't hold their own. They get a few hits in, and Dean's cheek is particularly sore thanks to a well-timed throw from Sam that had hit him square in the jaw, but with Cas on Dean's team, he can't lose. They fight for twenty minutes before Kevin and Sam holler reluctantly for mercy.

As they recuperate together, Dean turns to Cas and says, “I guess you have things you could teach me instead.”

Cas laughs, the sound bright and pure, and Dean swells with joy.

**

The next round is every man for himself. Because Dean is a gentleman, he lets Cas keep the barracks and spends the half-hour grace period to create a half-circle wall, behind which he stashes twenty snowballs. He keeps his back to the tree line and when they call the beginning of the war, he crouches beneath the wall and holds the first snowball in his hand. He tries to think how Cas might think. He's about two yards away from everyone, their bases set up in a circle. The snowballs he's packing are hard and medium-sized, so an accurate throw will require some modicum of force. If he throws it with a high arc, it should go almost undetected until the last moment, at which point the others' only saving grace will be their reflex time. He needs a way to get the snowball there quicker. He lobs the first snowball to test where it lands, and finds that the amount of strength he put into that throw causes it to fall just at the edge of Kevin's base.

More strength, smaller snowballs, similar density--

Someone smashes a ball of snow on his head. It drips down into his jacket, under his shirt, and slides ice-cold down his back.

“Fuck!” He leaps up, turns around, and is greeted by a grinning Cas. He's about to tackle the guy when Cas smashes another snowball right in Dean's face and, laughing, disappears into the tree line. Dean is left, snow dripping off his face, in a state of shock, paralyzed by what just happened. In that time, three snowballs peg him in the back.

“CAS!” he shouts. “YOU SON OF A BITCH!” Somewhere he can hear Cas's responding laughter as it echoes across the field. Dean vows to get him back, or so help him, he'll die trying.

**

The fight moves closer and closer to the center of the field and soon it becomes an all-out brawl. Dean finds himself wrestling Sam like when they were kids, and there is snow in Dean's pants and in his hair and he's freezing but he's laughing too hard to do much about it. Kevin and Cas are engaged in a tussle that has Cas in a headlock. Cas, they find, is not afraid to fight dirty when it comes to snowball fights, and he unleashes the wrath of a scorned angel upon the three of them by using snow in sneaky ways, slipping it into their gloves and hair, digging small holes and burying them in it until they all concede.

Cas is declared the winner of the snowball fights. Kevin promises to make him a crown at the bunker.

The sky is darkening by the time they finish, collapsed in the snow panting with exertion. They stare at the gray clouds above them and Dean's stomach hurts from laughing so hard. Next to him, Cas takes deep breaths and exhales them in swirling puffs of smoke. Dean can't stop staring at him. He almost forgets that Sam and Kevin are still there until the former stands up, stretching his long limbs and yawning.

“Alright,” he says. “I'm tired and I'm cold and I'm hungry. I'm going back. Anyone want to come?”

Kevin stands too. “Yeah,” he says, breathing into his hands. “Never thought I'd ever say this, but I'm snowed out.”

“A good snowball fight will do that to you,” Dean chuckles, but he makes no effort to move. He is perfectly content to lay here, in the snow, next to Cas, and not move for the rest of his life. He isn't even that cold. He's completely comfortable, if a bit numb in the extremities, 

“You guys coming?” Sam asks, but the tone of his voice suggests he already knows the answer. Dean opens his mouth to say no, but Cas beats him to it.

“We're fine,” he says. “We'll see you at the bunker.”

“Right,” Sam confirms. Waving a hand at Kevin, the two of them slough away through the snow, their footsteps fading into the distance. Soon, it's that same fluffy silence that got them to the field and it blankets them in comfort. The only sounds are their breathing, the occasional chirp of a bird or snapping of a twig. If Dean wiggles his hand, he could hold Cas's fingers.

Cas turns his head to meet Dean's eyes. “What are some other things you can show me?” he asks. “In the snow.”

Dean purses his lips thoughtfully. The idea comes to him like lightning. He scooches a little further away from Cas into the snow, not missing the gently irritated protesting sound Cas makes when he does, and says, “Spread your arms and legs out really wide.”

Cas does so, his limbs extending around him like points on a star. He looks ridiculous. So does Dean.

“Now, slide your arms up and down like this”--Dean demonstrates, shifting the snow around him--”and open and close your legs like this.”

The snow around Cas shuffles with the movements, and Dean sits up and wraps his arms around his knees to survey Cas's first snow angel. The snow is bunching up between Cas's legs, giving the angel what looks like bell bottom pants, and Dean moves forward to brush the line of snow away, smooth out the fan of the angel's robe. Cas ceases sliding his limbs, lays splayed in the white snow with his arms and legs outstretched, breath rising in small white clouds above his open, grinning mouth and disappearing into the air. 

Dean stands then, surveys Cas and his snow angel. Cas looks beautiful, ethereal, framed by smooth snow wings. His cheeks and nose are a pretty, cheerful pink, kissed by the cold and the wet, and his hair is damp and sticking to his face. It surrounds his head like a black, messy halo. His eyes are blue, blue, blue, complemented by the down jacket he chose that morning, exaggerated by the stark pureness of the snow around him. Dean has never seen Cas look more angelic, more gorgeous, than he has in this moment. He thinks Cas was made to be in the snow; two impossibly beautiful, magical things that have always made Dean feel warm and safe and happy. These exact seconds are the seconds he will recall later, wrapped up in Cas with blankets tangled around them, as defining the crucial moment when he realized he was in love with him.

He kneels down, reaches a hand out to draw a halo above Cas's head... he leans too far forward and topples over, landing on top of the angel ungracefully. Before his face collides with Cas's, though, he puts out his arms, landing on his forearms. He hovers inches from Cas's face, looking down into those terrifying, awesome blue eyes, and he holds his breath. He can feel Cas's warm exhalations against his mouth.

“Sorry,” he says, for lack of something better to say. “I was... trying to draw your halo.”

They are far too close. Dean feels he should move, exert his manliness, but feels no inclination to do so.

“It's okay,” Cas answers. His hands settle on Dean's triceps, their grip gentle but firm. “I don't mind.”

Dean lets out a quick laugh. “Me either,” he replies, and it makes perfect sense to lean down and kiss Cas then. He's not really sure why it seems like such an opportune moment. Perhaps there is some symbolism in the idea that Dean fell into Cas and started this while trying to draw a halo above his friend's head, or maybe there isn't, and Dean just feels like finally doing what he wants. The funny thing is, he thinks, as Cas opens his mouth and Dean accepts the invitation inside, that he hadn't realized he'd wanted this until he got it. Now he wants nothing but this. He is more content than ever to spend the rest of his life in this snowy field, making snow angels with Cas, kissing him in the ice and sharing the warmth between them. If a meteor came down from the heavens and struck them both where they lay, eradicating their existences from the universe, Dean wouldn't have any regrets. Not anymore.

When the need to breathe becomes too urgent, Dean backs off to take a breath, but refuses to pull away too far from Cas. Cas chases him a little with his mouth with a short whine. Dean laughs again, presses a sweet little kiss to Cas's mouth and says, “Gotta catch my breath, baby.”

Cas sighs, tightening his grip on Dean's arms, letting his head fall back into the snow, looking almost frustrated. He's smirking, though, and he looks so adorably disgruntled that Dean ignores his lungs' repeated requests for a break and leans in again resume their kissing. Cas kisses like he's starved for it, his hands sliding desperately up Dean's arms, around his shoulders, scratching at his head. Dean finds himself clinging back just as hard, holding Cas's face between his hands. He feels like he's losing control in the heat of Cas's mouth, the gentle friction of his hands in his hair and on his skin. His mind is blissfully blank, not a worry in sight, just Cas, and his lips, and the sharp clean smell of the brisk air in his lungs. He feels lighter than he has in months, in years.

When finally they break, Cas settles his head into the snow again and drags one cold hand across Dean's face. “Dean,” he says, his voice a reverent whisper. Dean has never felt so loved in all his years of life, and the sensation is uncomfortable, but looking down at Castiel, pressing his forehead against the other's with a sigh, he finds he could get used to this sudden deep and endless adoration. It scares him, but he wants to try. Mostly, he wants to kiss Cas again, and Cas is opening his mouth again, and he's going to take that as a sign to continue, but Cas gently pushes him away.

“Thank you for the snow day,” he says sweetly.

“You're welcome,” Dean replies. Just because he can't resist, he kisses Cas again and the distraction is welcome, the heat cherished. Then, the top of his head is cold. And wet. And Cas is laughing. Dean pulls away quickly as Cas's laughter becomes belly-deep, the corners of his eyes crinkling in joy, his smile so wide that Dean can see almost all of his teeth. He's still got the snowy hand on the top of Dean's head.

“You son of a bitch,” Dean murmurs, but there's no real venom behind the words. With Cas distracted, he grabs a fistful of snow himself and pushes it into Cas's wide mouth, rolling off him deftly before Cas has time to react.

So begins the second round of snowball fights. Dean plans to put his new tactics to good use and plans to win, but he loses anyway. He doesn't mind, though, because after the game-winning snowball pegs him in the face, he drags Cas back down into the snow, and they stare at the sky until it gets dark. The clearing goes quiet, and they only move when Dean's phone buzzes with a text from Sam: “QUIT MAKING OUT AND COME BACK KEVIN MADE FOOD.”

Dean stands, hauls Cas up, and they head back for the bunker. The outside world, the world of monsters and entities that keeps them busy, keeps them scared, feels lightyears away, silenced by the snowfall, and all that exists is the snow and the bunker and Team Free Will and Cas, trudging through the snow beside him. Cas, snowball warfare expert, Angel of the Lord, Dean's best friend. Cas, who fights dirty in the snow, who loves without restrictions, who chose – for some still-unknown reason – to love Dean, of all the people on earth. Cas, who had never played in the snow a day in his life, who made his first snow angel today.

As they enter the bunker, Dean whispers a silent hope into the winter sky that the snow lasts forever. There are so many more fights to be had and snow angels to be made and kisses to be shared. Dean needs to show Cas snow men and wants to hold him in a snow fort. There's still so much to do, Dean thinks, and he doesn't want to stop now.


End file.
